


5 times Murphy carried Connor, +1 time he didn't have to

by liggytheauthoress



Series: Five Times [2]
Category: Boondock Saints (Movies)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-20
Updated: 2014-11-20
Packaged: 2018-02-26 09:01:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,496
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2646065
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/liggytheauthoress/pseuds/liggytheauthoress
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"He’s your brother. You’d carry him all the way back to Ireland if you had to."</p>
            </blockquote>





	5 times Murphy carried Connor, +1 time he didn't have to

**Author's Note:**

> So I was not planning on writing any kind of sequel to "5 times Connor protected Murphy", but this idea just railroaded its way into my head the other day and I literally stopped everything I was doing and whispered, "Yes."
> 
> Heavily, heavily inspired by a lot of the meta of Tumblr user veritaaas, who is hands down my favorite fandom blogger and who continues to put up with me fangirling every time we interact.

You’re fourteen years old.

The two of you are on your way home from school, and you’re not in any particular hurry because getting home means telling Ma you got into a fight. Some tenth graders cornered you in the bathroom and you only just managed to hold your own long enough for Connor to come barreling in, seemingly out of nowhere.

Now you’re both limping and bleeding and sore, but you’re also both in one piece, so you’ll count it as a win.

You hate the way Connor winces every time he takes a step though. The nurse had said his ankle wasn’t sprained, just twisted, but you still hate the fact that he has to walk on it.

“Hang on,” you say, pulling him to a stop. You recognize the concerned look in his eyes and before he can ask if you’re okay, you take his arms and wrap them around your neck. “You’ll fuckin’ ruin your foot if you keep walkin’ on it. Get on.”

“I can fuckin’ walk on me own, Murph, you don’t have to carry me.”

“You keep goin’ and you’ll end up on crutches or some shit. And I’m not waitin’ on you hand and foot while you fuckin’ recuperate. So get on.” Your stern gaze softens to what Ma calls the puppy eyes, the ones you know Connor can never, ever say no to.

He knows you’re not playing fair, but he also knows you have a point, so he grumbles but hops up onto your back, wrapping his legs around your waist and resting his chin on your head. The impact jostles the bruises you have on your arms and shoulders, but you ignore it. You’re more than willing to endure a little extra pain if it means helping your brother.

* * *

 

You’re twenty years old.

It’s the middle of winter, the heat’s out again, and it’s one of the extremely rare occasions where only one of you has gotten sick. Normally your immune systems are identical, but every now and then there’s a deviation.

This time you lucked out and it’s Connor who’s currently bedridden with the flu. Which is his own damn fault, really, since he’s the idiot who decided to try freezing himself to death by giving you his blanket two nights ago, saying he wouldn’t be able to sleep with your teeth chattering from the cold and he’d be fine without.

You get home from picking up some more meds, courtesy of Doc, and find Connor slumped next to the toilet, looking like shit. His hair is stuck to his sweaty forehead and his skin is flushed. He squints up at you as you toss the bag of medicine aside and come over to crouch down next to him. You reach up to wipe his hair out of his face and he relaxes at your touch.

“Done throwin’ up?”

“Prob’ly not but I wanna go back to fucking sleep anyway.” He struggles to get to his feet on his own and you quickly wrap an arm around his waist before he can fall and break something, he doesn’t need an injury on top of being sick.

He doesn’t protest as you carefully guide him back over to his mattress and maneuver him down. You resist the urge to make some kind of wisecrack as you tuck him in.

The thin blankets aren’t doing much to stop his shivering, and you’re not about to let him freeze, so you kick off your shoes and slide under the blankets next to him, wrapping your arms around him, and he automatically pulls you into him.

After a few minutes, his breathing evens out, and you figure him getting some much-needed sleep is worth a few germs.

* * *

 

You’re twenty-four years old.

It’s been a typical St. Patrick’s Day again this year, with Ma calling and making you two promise not to drink too much, then the two of you going down to McGinty’s and doing just that. You’ve both had enough alcohol to supply a small army and by the time last call rolls around you’re both completely drunk off your asses.

You’ve always been a slightly more coordinated drunk than Connor has, so when he starts to stagger on the walk home you take his arm and sling it around your shoulders, letting him lean into you. He mutters something about being able to walk on his own, a second before he trips over his own feet and almost sends the two of you falling onto the sidewalk.

Connor protests for a moment and you ignore him, half-dragging him the rest of the way home and practically carrying him bridal-style up the stairs. When you go to drop him into bed he refuses to let go of you, grip strong considering how smashed he is, and you let yourself flop down next to him.

You roll your eyes as he wraps himself around you and immediately passes out, face pressed into your neck, his lips right on your pulse, as though even in sleep he feels the need to make sure your heart is still beating.

He’s draped across you like a blanket - a heavy, snoring blanket -  but frankly you don’t have the heart to make him move.

* * *

 

You’re twenty-nine years old.

You honestly have no fucking idea what’s happening right now, all you know is you’re on your knees in an alley and one of the Russian bastards from last night is pointing a gun in your face and Connor is back up in the flat cuffed around the toilet.

You know he’s going to get to you. You’re just not sure how.

The Russian tells you he hopes your conscience is clear and for a second you’re in danger of letting yourself give in to the fact that you’re probably about to die.

And then suddenly something large and white is crashing onto the Russian’s head and you hear a very familiar yell as your twin fucking throws himself off the roof.

Everything else seems to stop when he hits the second Russian and they both fall to the ground.

You’re frantic, hands reaching for his neck, feeling for a pulse. Thank God. You could kill him for being so stupid.

You’re forced to leave his side long enough to incapacitate the other Russian and gather up the guns and wallets (you’re not sure why you take them but some instinct is telling you to), then you’re back, grabbing Connor as carefully as you sling him over your shoulder. You want to call an ambulance but getting any kind of authority, even the paramedics, involved in this is a teribble idea, and the hospital’s only about a ten minute walk away.

He’s your brother. You’d carry him all the way back to Ireland if you had to.

* * *

 

You’re thirty-seven years old.

Your father is dead.

Your father is dead, Romeo’s at death’s door, and you’re locked in a prison along with a couple hundred assholes who would all love to murder you the first chance they get.

You’ve been in the infirmary for almost two days now and even though Connor’s trying to hold it together, you can see the cracks. He’s always the stronger one, the one with the plan, but you can see it, he’s not sure he can do that this time. He’s missing Da and he’s terrified that he won’t be able to keep both of you safe.

At lights out, once the doctor leaves and the guard who usually lurks in the corner moves to stand sentry outside the door for the night, you reach over, ignoring the way the handcuffs dig into your wrist, and grasp your brother’s hand.

He meets your gaze and you see the tears in his eyes, and you want to cry too. But you don’t. Instead you squeeze his hand tightly and stroke his knuckles with your thumb, quietly whispering to him in Gaelic until he finally falls asleep. Even then, you don’t let go. You’re exhasted, but you’d rather stay awake in case he needs you again.

Connor’s always the stronger one, but maybe for now, for a little while, he doesn’t have to be. 

* * *

You’re thirty-nine years old.

The two of you are slumped in the backseat of a car being driven by a man you’d both thought was dead and buried, and by now the Hoag is many, many miles behind you. For the first time in two years, you feel Connor fully relaxing beside you as he takes your hand in his and nudges you with his forehead.

You know this is just a temporary respite - Smecker hasn’t busted the two of you out so you can go on holiday - but for right now, you’re content to just sit here next to your brother with ridiculous dopey smiles on both your faces, because you’re free.

You’re free, you’re alive, and you’re together, and for right now, that’s more than enough.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Depending on whether or not my muse cooperates, there is a very good chance there will be at least one more entry in this series. But I'm not making any promises.


End file.
